


The Truth Serum Affair

by Ingu



Series: The Man From Tumblr [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Prompt Fill, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sad part is that they technically planned for him to get caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt:](http://ingu.tumblr.com/post/133169946638/hi-i-love-your-fics-over-at-ao3-can-you-please) Can you please write a Illya/Napoleon fic where Napoleon expressed all the things he love about Illya under the influence of a truth serum while being interrogated by kidnappers and Illya heard it over 1 of the bugs he planted on Napoleon. Cue angst/pining but a happy ending please?
> 
> Warning for abuse of italics, and also violence and drugs.

The sad part is that they technically planned for him to get caught.

In their line of work, information is _really useful_ , and misinformation just as much so. It had been such a simple strategy. Get captured, take a few hits (preferably not to the face), and then spew out a bunch of lies before Illya charges in for the rescue, guns blazing. The bad guys scatter into the wind with their heads full of falsehoods, Napoleon leverages his injuries to gain extra allowances (maybe), and everyone gets a mostly happy ending.

Of course, the _lying_ part is what’s important in this scenario, because the entire operation hinges on his captors _believing_ the words that come out of his mouth. So when the syringe containing the supposed ‘truth serum’ comes out, Napoleon first gets a little excited, and then genuinely gets a lot worried. Their intelligence had never mentioned these people having access to any sort of ‘assistive’ technology, and if Napoleon starts telling the _truth_ truth, then they might have a problem.

Information versus misinformation, it’s complicated. When competing information clash, people tend to get hurt, like Napoleon, in this example.

Another fist collides with his face, and Napoleon sags to the side, biting back a groan.

“Enough.” The woman at the back sighs, visibly annoyed. “I swear you just like hitting him.”

“Why do you think I’m in this business?” responds Napoleon’s assailant, a tall, burly man with what Napoleon has decided is an unnecessary amount of muscle.

“Just give him the injection.”

The man grumbles, but grabs at the syringe as he is ordered. A protest almost makes it out of Napoleon’s mouth before the needle is clumsily stabbed into his arm, and he winces instead. For a brief moment, as the pain flares with introduction of something unwelcome and bitterly cold inside his veins, he considers the merit of calling off the mission early. Illya is listening, isn’t he? Napoleon had never actually confirmed whether he would be bugged, which now, in retrospect, was clearly an oversight. But knowing Illya, it’s usually safe to bet on his paranoia, which means he knows that things have just gone very wrong and will be here any second now.

Already, the world around him is fading into dull, muted tones. Napoleon blinks his eyes, trying to clear away the rising fog blurring his vision and clouding his thoughts. It’s like he’s slowly being submerged underwater, or just, suddenly very drunk.

_This works fast._

“So I’ve been told,” the woman says, and Napoleon realizes he just spoke aloud. That’s not good, he can’t even trust his thoughts to stay thoughts anymore. This would probably be a good time to abort, Napoleon thinks, _before I start saying things I shouldn’t._

“Unfortunately, you’re not calling the shots here, Mr. Miller.”

Then, for safety’s sake, Napoleon decides to just not think, which turns out to be a very easy thing to do. He vaguely understands he should be alarmed by how easy it is to not think, except it’s not immediately clear why. Everything is slipping further and further away, the world twisting and swirling into a confusing haze.

Illya. Napoleon remembers startling blue eyes and strong, gentle hands, just needs to hold out _until Illya gets here._ Any second now.

“Illya? Is that your friend we saw earlier? I’m afraid I don’t think he’s coming.”

 _Ha_. Napoleon laughs. “No, we’re not friends. I think.” He’s not really sure what they are. Not enemies, but they argue too much to really call each other friends, and Illya still _glares_ at him a lot, even when Napoleon doesn’t think he deserves it. “I don’t want to be friends with him.”  

No, he’d like to be much more than that, not that Illya is ever allowed to find out.

“Why?” The man interjects, sounding frustratingly entertained. “Did he steal your hair gel?”

“No.” Illya wouldn’t use hair gel even if Napoleon gave it to him for free.

“Then tell us about him.” This time, it’s the woman who speaks. “He is your colleague, is he not? A fellow spy.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you know about his weaknesses?”

“Danishes.” When they were in Hamburg, waiting for a target to show up for a trade deal, Napoleon had bought a box of assorted viennoiseries on a whim. The apple Danishes had vanished within an hour of him returning to the hotel, and Illya’s lips that night had looked suspiciously glossy and kissable like it was glazed with sugar. It happened again in London, and then in Brussels, and then whenever Napoleon did something stupid he started bribing himself back into Illya’s good graces with baked goods.

“D-Danishes?”

Napoleon nods, Illya also has _a weakness for hot chocolates with marshmallows, but he doesn’t want people to know that_.

His captor sighs, and then there is a moment of thoughtful silence during which Napoleon thinks about Illya’s lips again.

“And what would hurt him the most if it was put in danger?”

“Oh. His watch,” Napoleon says, “And his chess set.” Napoleon once stole the black queen, and one of the knights. It hadn’t helped, and Napoleon still lost every game they played. But Illya had sulked for days after he realized the pieces were missing. He never said anything about it, but there was always this tiny downturn to his lips and a crease in his brow and he’d been snappier than usual. On the third day, Napoleon had caught him on the phone with the hotel cleaning staff, and in his guilt he had snuck the pieces back into Illya’s luggage. The Russian was visibly relaxed afterwards, though Napoleon still doesn’t know if Illya is aware of his involvement in the disappearance.

“Does he have any… _human_ weaknesses?” The woman sounds very impatient now. “Any addictions, or compulsions he can’t control?”

 _Well_. “He destroys things when he gets angry. He gets angry a lot.”

“And what makes him angry, Mr. Miller?”

Everything is askew. His head hurts. _Where is Illya?_

“He’s not coming.” It’s the woman’s voice again. “Now answer the question, what makes him angry?”

So many things. “I know I make him angry, a lot. I said some really terrible things about his family once. He destroyed an entire hotel room because of me. Then there was the time I got captured and compromised the entire mission and he was furious then. I don’t think he likes me much.”

“This isn’t going anywhere,” a man grumbles.

“Shut up.”

Napoleon shuts up.

“No, not you, keep talking.”

_About Illya?_

“Yes, tell us everything you know.”

But there’s _so much_. “I met Illya in East Germany, when I had to take Gaby over the wall.” Illya had been so striking, even under the dim streetlight. He had the most absurdly determined expression on his face then. The moment Napoleon properly laid eyes on him it was like a switch had been flipped in his head, and he could no longer fathom shooting the tall, blond, _endearing_ , giant of a man. “He tried to stop a car with raw might, can you believe that? He’s ridiculous. I’ve never met anyone so frustrating. He is stupid, and perfect, and has that annoying face you can’t stop thinking about kissing.”

“What.”

“He’s stupid” Napoleon clarifies. He’s very tired, but it’s too uncomfortable for him to fall sleep. At least Illya isn’t here. If he can hear him he’d be in here already, saving Napoleon from his captors’ evil clutches, just like he’d saved him from Uncle Rudi.

“That’s disgusting,” the man says, sounding very disgusted. “We caught a damn fairy.”

 _Maybe you’re the fairy._ Napoleon’s mind supplies sensibly.

The man hits him again, and Napoleon feels himself sag even further. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then gets hit again. He’s getting really sick of people hitting him. Where is Illya? He should be here by now.

“Alright, stop it,” the woman says again. Then, she bends down in front of Napoleon, and slaps at his face. “For the sake of clarity, are you in love?”

No. “Yes.” _Maybe._

“Guess we did find a weakness after all.” The woman grins, a hideous twisting of the lips that turns her blurry face monstrous. “It’s always fun to hear what agents like you can’t stand to lose.”

Something twists viciously in Napoleon’s chest. No. He can’t _lose_ Illya. That is. Not. Okay. Napoleon would kill them. Kill them if they so much as lay a hand on Illya. He won’t allow Illya to get hurt. Not on his watch.

“Please don’t hurt him,” he murmurs, eyes widening with dawning terror. Because they can hurt Illya, that’s what. Napoleon is cuffed to a chair. He can’t do anything. Is that why Illya still isn’t here? Did they _catch_ him? God, why is everything so confusing?

The woman’s smile twists into a different shape, but despite Napoleon’s plea, she doesn’t agree. “Now, Mr. Miller, lets get back to the real reason you’re here today. Where did your organization move our cargo?”

Now that, that Napoleon can answer. That is why he is here today. And the fun thing, the reason he hadn’t just picked his handcuffs and ran away the moment the drugs came out, is because he doesn’t know the truth. He only knows what he was told.

So he tells them the only answer he has to offer.

His captors, accordingly, are _ecstatic_. They don’t even ask him the important question of ‘is that true’, because they already injected him with some sort of magic serum that makes everything confusing and bright and blurry. A hideous grin sprouts on the man’s face to match the woman, and the pair of demon-creatures start murmuring between themselves. Napoleon gets the impression that they want to ask him _more_ , about this ‘Gaby’ he mentioned, and about this mysterious UNCLE that had gotten in the way of their plans. It is surprising how little they actually know.

Then something explodes and the entire room goes up in smoke.

Napoleon’s ears are still ringing when someone drags him from the chair he’s in with a harsh: “Come on, we’re getting out of here.” Napoleon immediately slumps forward, because, to be honest, his legs don’t seem to be working right now, and is caught by a pair of strong, sturdy arms. In the next moment, he recognises the arms, they’re Illya’s arms.

“Illyaaa…” Napoleon mumbles, delighted. His _knight in shining armor._

He’s laughing as Illya drags him out of the room, and the next thing he knows, he’s outside, the sky is blue, and there is more air to breathe. Illya is _here._

“I thought you left me.” Napoleon says, grinning and grabbing at Illya’s face to pull him closer.

His hands are slapped away. Illya stares at him with an odd expression, all confusion and heartbreak, like he’d just been forced to watch as someone drowned a kitten in front of him and he doesn’t understand why.

“I’m here,” Illya says, his jaw tense. He pulls one of Napoleon’s arms over his neck and starts steering him toward a waiting car.

“That’s good.” Napoleon is still grinning. _That’s great_. They’re so close. He likes being close to Illya. “You smell nice.” Like citrus and cedar, mint and gunpowder.

“Please just be quiet.” Illya almost sounds like he’s begging. It is very weird, because Illya never begs. _Ever._

“But I like talking.” Napoleon hums as he’s shoved into the back-seat. “People say I have a nice voice.”

A car door slams, and then they’re moving. Napoleon stares up at the roof, and blinks sleepily as the car rocks and rumbles beneath him. They asked if he’s in love with Illya. Ridiculous. _Wait_.

“Were you listening?” Napoleon says, because it’s _very important_ that he knows _._

There’s no response, and Napoleon’s good mood wanes with each second of silence, sinking slowly into misery. Silence means yes. He’s ruined it now. Illya must hate him. Napoleon the filthy sodomite preying on the-

“I don’t hate you.”

Oh. Napoleon’s thoughts stutter to a stop, then all at once begins to fixate on a very important question. “Do you love me back?”

Illya makes this huffing, mumbling, uncertain sound, and Napoleon decides it means the answer is no. He’s not surprised, because he has no reason to be. Illya loves Gaby.

The car lurches dangerously.

“I am not in love with Gaby,” Illya says.

“It’s okay if you are.”  Napoleon has known for a while now.

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” _Liar._

The car lurches a second time, and Napoleon’s head smacks against the door. He can't help a whimper of pain.

“I like someone else,” Illya says through gritted teeth.

 _What_. Napoleon struggles to remember all the women they’ve interacted with in the past few months of their acquaintance. But Illya hasn’t shown interest in anyone else but Gaby. Is it that socialite Napoleon saw him flirting with at the benefit in Madrid? But he thought that was simply for the mission. Or is it someone from Illya’s past Napoleon had never met before?

“It’s not a woman.”

A _man?!_ An… no, Illya isn’t like that. They’ve interacted with even more men, and Napoleon recalls quite a few attractive ones who _could_ have caught Illya’s eye. But what if it’s another KGB agent? This makes everything worse, Napoleon doesn’t even know who his competition is.

“It’s you.”

Oh. Napoleon’s thoughts quiet. Then, something hot and bright and colorful explodes in his chest. “You love me back.”

Silence.

“Just stay awake until we get to the doctor.” Illya’s voice is so gentle, and it makes Napoleon all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

 _Illya loves him._ Napoleon laughs.

“Okay,” he says. The world is slowly fading to white. “Does this mean I can kiss you?”

“Yes,” Illya says. “Later. Stay awake.”

Napoleon falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Napoleon wakes with the world’s worst hangover. The light is too bright and his entire brain is numb with pain. Napoleon groans on top of what feels like a very soft bed, and then curls into a tight ball, wishing he could return to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

“How are you feeling?”

Napoleon only dares to open one eye. Gaby is at his bedside, thoughtfully chewing on a peach. Then, he chances a closer look at his surroundings and finds he’s in some sort of hospital. White walls, bright windows, scratchy sheets, safe.

“Like I lost a stand-off with a road roller.”

Even his own voice is too loud. Napoleon shrinks back under the covers praying for death.

“At least you survived,” Gaby muses. Then she takes another bite of the peach, uncaring of the loud crunch that reverberates through Napoleon’s skull.

Napoleon mumbles in acknowledgement.

“So, about Illya.”

“What about him?” Napoleon remembers the injection, and barely anything after it, though he has a distinct impression he was discussing pastries at some stage. “Did the mission succeed?”

“Huh.”

“What?” Napoleon peeks again. Gaby stares at him, looking a little dumbstruck.

“Nothing.” Gaby replies a little too quickly. “You succeeded. They’re moving a team into position to catch them.”

“Great.”

Napoleon falls back asleep before the feeling that he’s missing something important can truly take hold.

 

-

 

Illya never shows up to visit him, and it’s the first sign that something is wrong.

To be fair, Napoleon had been released within 48 hours of his rescue, when it became clear that the worst effects of the injection were hangover-like symptoms. It’s not the most dramatic of hospital stays, but Gaby flits in and out of his hospital room multiple times each day, and it’s hard not to contrast her near-constant presence with his partner’s conspicuous absence. At least it feels like Gaby actually cares.

During large amounts of time spent alone, Napoleon’s mind wanders. His memories of the mission are in pieces, but he does recall the rumbling of a car engine, Illya’s arms holding him, and the most inexplicable feeling of joy and comfort.

Napoleon doesn’t know what to make of that.

 

-

 

The second sign that something is wrong comes when Waverly mentions ‘working things through’ with Illya during Napoleon’s formal report. The report is simple procedure to confirm that Napoleon really doesn’t remember a thing, a fact that Gaby had confirmed countless times during Napoleon’s hospital stay. The entire thing is entirely unnecessary, especially considering that Waverly tells Napoleon that everyone had been listening in on his interrogation anyway. To Napoleon’s immense relief, he seemed to have dealt with being drugged with a truth serum surprisingly well, revealing nothing incriminating about UNCLE.

In that same meeting, he finds that Illya had been given the days since the mission off.

Napoleon tries not to take it personally, though Illya now has no excuse for not showing up short of not wanting to see Napoleon’s face. If he was a little more insecure, he might flag down Gaby and ask if she knows why.

It’s always disappointing to realize that you don’t mean as much to someone as they do to you, though this time, it feels slightly worse. Napoleon had thought his relationship with Illya had been improving recently, but clearly, whatever positive progress they’d made had been tossed out the window during this last mission.

Illya wouldn’t hold a grudge against him for something Napoleon can’t remember, would he?

For that matter, what exactly did he do?

 

-

 

The third sign comes when they finally see each other again at the briefing for a new assignment. Illya is disturbingly normal. He apologizes for his absence and provides no excuse, behaving in a way that is so frustratingly ordinary it means he has to be compensating for something. Illya being normal after ignoring Napoleon entirely for almost a week reassures him about as much as Illya wearing a giant sign around his neck proclaiming _nothing is wrong here_.

The point being: something is wrong.

Napoleon has an inkling as to why, an inkling only, because he can’t remember the specifics of whatever went on while he was under the influence of that drug. But there are only so many things that make sense when their current situation is a result of combining Napoleon with honesty and placing him in the same space as Illya. When he thinks about it, it’s quite clear why Illya is acting so strangely, because even though Napoleon doesn’t remember what exactly happened after the injection, he does recall what it was they had put into him.

_Truth serum._

And when it comes to Illya and all the secrets Napoleon never wanted to share, there is only one thing that might lead to this kind of reaction.

Napoleon understands rejection when he sees it, and he tells himself he’s not hurt by it. If anything, Napoleon is disappointed at the Russian, because he genuinely expected Illya to be more mature than this. But even though he would prefer the respect of at least having things discussed face-to-face, he doesn’t begrudge Illya for choosing to keep his distance.

At least he’s not requesting for a transfer, or for Napoleon to be fired, or cornering him in a dark alley with a crowbar in his hand.

There’s a reason men like him don’t confess that kind of attraction. Napoleon focuses on the positive.

 

-

 

“So, did you talk to Illya?” Gaby asks, the first time they see each other again after Napoleon and Illya had their _normal_ reunion.

“I did,” Napoleon replies, a little more harshly than he intended.

Gaby frowns at him, her brow knotted in confusion. “You don’t seem very happy.”

“Should I be jumping for joy?” Napoleon says dryly. Illya is no better or worse than usual. A good thing, he tells himself when the disappointment he had so determinedly suppressed abruptly returns with a vengeance. He should be relieved that Illya is willing to pretend nothing happened.

“If that’s what you want,” Gaby says with a shrug. “Well, congrats.”

She pats him distractedly on the shoulder, and then walks away, leaving a perplexed Napoleon staring after her.

What a strange girl.

 

-

 

If someone doses Napoleon again with truth serum, he will likely tell them this: it really does hurt.

He goes on as normal, because it what Illya wants, and what their job expects. But knowing something will never happen doesn’t magically make you stop wanting it. And Illya is everywhere, in his ear during an infiltration, at his side during a gunfight, sitting across from him in the hotel room. Napoleon couldn’t escape seeing him short of requesting for a new partner or worse, handing his leash back to the CIA.

You see, Illya was never supposed to be a topic that was brought up, and it had been Napoleon who miscalculated his chances of getting out with his dignity unscathed. He can’t blame Illya for not returning his feelings, he has no moral high ground to seek shelter in. The most Napoleon can do is take his disappointment and frustration and package it tightly, lock it inside.

And if he drinks just a little bit more and smiles a little bit less, well, that’s what people do when they get their hearts broken, isn’t it?

 

-

 

Then Illya goes missing.

It goes like this: London, SoHo. A club owner is suspected of being involved in an international human trafficking ring. The pair of them are tasked with finding the time and location of a new ‘shipment’ of kidnapped women. Illya poses as a buyer, makes contact, and walks out of the club in front of Napoleon’s eyes.

He never shows up again. Napoleon doesn’t panic. He makes three rounds of the district, talks to at least twelve different people, and finds no hint of Illya whatsoever. He doesn’t panic, even though fear chews at his thoughts and turns every imagined possibility terrible and bloody.

Waverly calls two hours later, and opens with a sentence Napoleon never wanted to hear.

“We have a problem.”

Which is the point Napoleon starts losing grip on his composure.

One of the smugglers Napoleon set up for capture escaped. Waverly says that they kidnapped Illya, likely both for information and for revenge.

“Why would they want Illya?” Napoleon is bewildered by Waverly’s theory. “It should be me they have a grudge against.”

“They know you care about him, Solo,” Waverly replies calmly. “From what I understand, hurting him would be the same as hurting you.”

Waverly knows. Realizations hit Napoleon one after the other. He had confessed his feelings that day, but it wasn’t to Illya, it was to an entire crowd of people listening both face-to-face and over the radio waves. They know Illya is one of the few people left in the world who Napoleon gives a damn about, and they’re ready to hurt him so Napoleon will pay for his lies.

“Where is he?”

 

-

 

They’re keeping him in an apartment, on the second floor of a squat sandstone building in a quiet street nearby. It is a trap, but Napoleon doesn’t care. He kicks down the front door and strides through the doorway with intent to kill. He doesn't have to go far, for he finds the people he's looking for right there in the living room.

It’s the woman who is waiting for him, her hair singed and arm bandaged from the ambush she only survived by luck. There’s dried blood on her hands and madness in her eyes. When she sees him, she speaks.

“It’s your fault!” The gun she points at Illya’s head is shaking. “It’s your fault he’s dead. I never told him… God, I never…”

Illya is tied to a metal chair, slumped forward and unconscious. Blood drips from the tip of his nose, his fingers, and a small pool of red grows on the dirty linoleum floor. His hair is matted and his clothes darkened with dampness Napoleon knows is blood. A blood-stained knife stands stabbed into the wooden table nearby.

Terror grips Napoleon, squeezing the air from his lungs. There’s a moment, endless, stretching out into eternity, where he’s convinced that Illya is truly dead, just like the woman says. And then, he remembers the burly man who had interrogated him that day, the man who is now nowhere to be seen.

“Put down the gun,” the woman says. Napoleon doesn’t even remember her name, though he’s sure it’s been mentioned to him before.

Napoleon puts his gun down on the table.

“I want you to watch this.” Behind the coldness in the woman’s voice, there is a tremor, barely there. “Watch him die just like I had to watch Mike get shot right in front of me.”

“This won’t bring him back,” Napoleon replies with a calm he doesn’t feel. It’s as though the woman’s words have replaced his blood with ice, and he is trembling, his fear a primal urge that clamors for him to either grab his gun and fight back or run far far away and never let himself fall in love ever again.

“No,” the woman says. “But it will make me feel better.”

The crack of a gunshot, a burst of red, the woman’s expression freezes, and her eyes lose focus as blood sprays from the hole in her head. The glass on the window has new cracks, crawling outward from the gap left behind by the passing bullet. From where the woman stands, it would be part of a perfect line toward the rooftop across the road.

A second later, she topples to the floor.

“That was close,” Gaby’s voice sounds over the comms.

Napoleon goes to Illya, untying his restraints with clumsy movements. Illya is too pale, and Napoleon’s tries not to think of the limp weight as Illya falls forward into his arms. His hand brushes back Illya's hair, his fingers trail across Illya’s cheeks, and he tries not to think of how cold Illya’s skin is, or the dark brown red that now stains his own skin and clothes.

“The medics?” Napoleon says, quiet, emotionless as it is what the situation demands of him.

“They’re on their way.”

 

-

 

For the first two days, Napoleon stays away.

Not out of some petty need for revenge, it is the guilt that eats at him, the knowledge that he is the reason Illya became a target, the understanding that Illya had come closer to dying in that moment than anyone of them are willing to admit. He isn’t sure how to face Illya, if it will be hate or forgiveness he sees in those eyes. He doesn’t know which one would be worse.

Sometimes, he thinks about the woman, her snarling face, the greed and hate that had driven her into an early grave. Napoleon has plenty of things keeping him awake at night, and another soul to haunt him is truly nothing in the grand scheme of things.

What stays with him is the woman’s regret. The _I never_ s that tortured her mind.

Her name was Jennifer. Though that hardly matters, in the end.

 

-

 

When Napoleon finally shows up at the hospital, he brings flowers, dahlias, simply because he thought they looked nice. It’s trite by way of apology, but showing up empty-handed seemed worse.

Illya is awake and alone when Napoleon gets there, and the look of surprise on his face when he sees Napoleon at the doorway makes Napoleon feel even worse. He tries not to look too guilty when he arranges the flowers into the empty vase. Illya’s gaze follows his every move, but Napoleon does not dare to meet it until he is sitting in the plastic chair by Illya's bed.

Illya is the one who speaks first. Of everything he can open with, he chooses: “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You should be thanking Gaby,” Napoleon says, and it’s neither hate nor forgiveness that he sees in Illya’s eyes, but something in between. Acceptance, and something softer that makes his chest feel tight with longing.

Illya smiles then, it is small, and feels somehow precious. “I already have.”

“I…” Napoleon takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “I wanted to apologize for what happened to you,” he says quietly. “If I hadn’t… If I’d aborted the mission before they injected me, you wouldn’t have become their target.”

“It’s not your fault.” Illya’s reply comes without the slightest hesitation. “I was the one who was careless and got caught.”

Napoleon laughs softly at that. “We both know she would never have gone for you if it hadn’t been for me. So give me this, Peril. I’m sorry.”

 “I would have taken that same risk.” Illya says, and Napoleon catches himself staring at the white of bandages that peeks out from beneath his collar. “There’s no need to apologize.”

“I’m not quite sure that’s true.”

There’s a moment of silence. When Illya speaks again, there’s a seriousness in Illya’s voice that is heavy enough to be unsettling.

“You don’t know that.”

What is Illya suggesting? Napoleon thinks about the woman, her anger, her grief, _it’s your fault he’s dead._

_I never told him._

“I don’t know a lot of things,” Napoleon says taking a chance for reasons he doesn’t want to understand. “Like what exactly happened between us that day, what made you start avoiding me.”

“Nothing happened.”

“But that’s not true, isn't it?”

Illya opens his mouth, and then closes it – Napoleon can only assume – when no appropriate lie presents itself in time.

There’s only silence, after that.

 

-

 

Illya recovers and nothing changes. They go back to destroying lives and saving the world. The real reason Illya became a target hangs unspoken between them, and eventually, Napoleon isn't sure if it even needs to be discussed anymore.

 

-

 

When the other shoe drops it is two months later inside a safehouse in Cape Town. Napoleon is stretched out on the couch, his nose buried in a book. Illya sits at the dining table nearby, fiddling with his chess pieces until he stops. He stands up, and walks closer to Napoleon.

“Okay. Fine,” Illya states, and Napoleon glances up at him over the pages. “You forgot some things you said, and I… wasn’t sure what to do. But then, I figured it out, and now everything is fine.”

“Fine.” Napoleon repeats, taking a moment to catch onto what Illya is referring to - his reasons for avoiding Napoleon in that week after the mission gone wrong.

“Fine.” Illya nods.

Napoleon pushes himself up and puts his feet back on the floor. The book he closes, and slowly sets on the coffee table in front of him. He uses the time to think, considering the intent behind Illya's words. Knowing Illya, he had been probably obsessing over this for the past eight weeks.

“So I said nothing to offend you,” Napoleon says eventually.

“No.”

“Nothing that hurt you.”

“No.”

“Nothing to make you angry?”

“No. Well. No.”

Napoleon frowns at the hesitance, but Illya’s conviction is enough for him to let it go. Then, there is the most important thing. “You don’t hate me?”

Illya’s has the audacity to look _hurt_ by his words. “Of course not.” Then, a mumbled, "Why do you always assume that?"

“So there was no reason you avoided me for a whole week.”

“I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”

Napoleon nods seriously. “Then would you be willing to tell me what you _were_ doing that week, and whether or not it has anything to do with the fact that you know how I feel about you?”

Illya’s expression of shock tells Napoleon all that he needs to know. He grimaces, dropping his head. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…”

He is a coward, Napoleon decides. “You let me think you hated me.”

Illya’s eyes widen slightly, and Napoleon sees a spark of horror. He hadn’t even realized. Napoleon wants to throttle him.

“But I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly, and yet Gaby and Waverly were walking around on eggshells. Clearly, I said or did something incriminating while I was on those drugs. Isn’t that right?”

Illya looks like he wants to refute him, but then he caves, and nods slightly. “You did… confess… something.”

“Something,” Napoleon deadpans.

Illya nods.

“You know, you could have just rejected me outright.”

“What?”

“Look, I know it’s an uncomfortable situation, but I would have just taken no for an answer.”

“That’s not-”

“And then you ignore me for a week? What did you expect me to think?”

“It wouldn’t have been fair.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t want me to know.”

That is… that isn’t wrong. Napoleon runs out of words for a hot second, because Illya can’t possibly be that _stupid_. But Illya only stares at him like a sad grizzly bear, and Napoleon is forced to make himself heard.

“It hardly matters when you already know everything.”

“That’s not true.” Illya says immediately.

Napoleon doesn’t understand.

“You shouldn’t be… manipulated into some sort of relationship just because those smugglers forced you to confess.” Illya continues seriously. “I understand that attraction to a partner can be… difficult to manage. But being romantically involved with a colleague is not a good idea in our profession, and I can respect that you never intended to pursue anything between us. So. I have no intentions of holding your confessions over you. You don’t have to worry.”

It takes a long time for Napoleon to fully process the meaning of Illya’s words.

“You thought I never said anything because I didn’t want a relationship with you?” Napoleon states, dumbstruck. Illya was trying to be… considerate? Why does it make sense to him that Illya thinks that repressing (reciprocated!) romantic feelings can be a healthy decision?

“I…” At last, Napoleon’s reaction is triggering the appropriate bewilderment in Illya, who looks increasingly uncertain about everything. “Don’t you?”

Let it be known that Napoleon had not expected to be in this kind of situation when he woke up this morning.

“Why else wouldn’t you have said anything?” Illya continues, his voice lowering to a mumble as he turns introspective.

The word pragmatic comes to Napoleon’s mind, the word coward also.

“And you told Gaby that relationships are messy and not worth the commitment.”

Napoleon very suddenly regrets ever having that conversation. In his defense, they had been talking about civilians. Of course Illya would only overhear the part that he didn’t need to.

Illya falls silent, an annoyingly endearing look of confusion on his face.

“I never said anything because I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Napoleon admits, suddenly painfully aware of his own part in the entire misunderstanding. Perhaps he isn’t as good at reading people as he thought he was.

Illya’s eyes are still wide, and Napoleon wants to kiss that stupid look off of his face. “But Gaby said I was being obvious,” Illya says, like its Napoleon’s fault for this absurd case of miscommunication.

This time its Napoleon’s turn to be bewildered. Illya projects the emotional range of a bronze statue. “How were you ever obvious?”

“She said that I looked-” Illya’s mouth slams shut, and his eyes narrow.

“Looked what?” Napoleon prods, biting back a sudden, terrible urge to grin.

Illya shakes his head and tries to act nonchalant.

“Illya?” Napoleon’s tone is now openly teasing.

Illya’s jaw tightens.

“What did she say?”

Illya squares his shoulders and looks one way, then another. “She said I looked at you like a puppy.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen, and his face brightens with an expression of pure delight. How could he have not noticed? “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Illya replies immediately. It’s a transparent lie. He still refuses to look at Napoleon, but Napoleon will have time later to ask Gaby for the details. A small thrill shoots through him, because all of this means that Illya never hated him, this conversation is a thing that is happening, and suddenly, a thousand new possibilities are opening up before his eyes.

“So, just to make things absolutely clear. You do actually return my… interest.”

Illya presses his lips together, then grumbles: “I suppose so.”

“Well in that case,” Napoleon says, his eyes narrowing with focus. “May I kiss you?”

Illya freezes from head to toe, before he gives a tiny, single nod.

Napoleon stands up and steps forward, feeling lighter than air, and puts his words to action. He pulls Illya’s body close, lined up warmly against his, and presses their lips together softly, chaste and almost teasing. He keeps his eyes open, and studies the flutter of Illya’s lashes, the lost look in his eyes as their lips meet for the first time, and for the first time in Napoleon's life, he feels something like contentment settle over him. They don’t have to rush things, Napoleon thinks as he kisses Illya. Napoleon plans to woo Illya properly, to at least buy dinner first before moving to more salacious activities. Illya was right, this is far from a good idea for a pair of spies with opposite allegiances. All of this may implode in their faces very soon, or perhaps it will work out perfectly.

Napoleon looks forward to finding out what happens next.

Mere seconds later, Illya pulls away and studies him with a serious frown. Napoleon stares back, confused.

“Finally,” Illya says, before he kisses Napoleon again, fierce and urgent.

Napoleon laughs into the kiss. Yes.

_Finally._

 

-

 

The dead stay dead, the living continue living.

Life goes on.


End file.
